Chapter 9
Willa
T he exhaustion hits me like a freight train at two in the afternoon, washing over my body with the relentless force of an incoming tide. I set down my measuring tape and grip the edge of the cutting table, waiting for the wave to pass while my client drones on about buttonhole preferences.
This isn’t normal tiredness. I’ve worked fourteen-hour days before, surviving on coffee and determination through Henri’s most demanding seasons. This feels different—deeper and more consuming, like my body is betraying me from the inside out.
Mrs. Patterson’s voice sounds distant despite her standing three feet away. “Miss Reynolds? Are you all right?”
I force a smile and straighten, though my head spins slightly with the movement. “Just a bit tired. It’s been a long week. You know how it is.”
She nods sympathetically, though concern lingers in her expression. “Perhaps we should reschedule? I’d hate for you to push yourself when you’re not feeling well.”
I shake my head, mustering professional composure. “No, please. I’m fine. Let’s finish your measurements so I can get started on your jacket.”
The next twenty minutes pass in a haze of professional competence and carefully hidden nausea. Mrs. Patterson chatters about her daughter’s wedding while I record numbers that blur together on my notepad. The scent of her perfume, usually pleasant, makes my stomach lurch with unexpected violence.
When she finally leaves, I lock the front door and flip the sign to closed, though it’s barely three o’clock. The shop feels too warm, too small, and too full of competing scents that seem designed to trigger the queasiness that’s become my constant companion.
I sink into Henri’s old chair behind the counter and rest my head in my hands, trying to make sense of what’s happening to my body.
The exhaustion started two weeks ago, subtle at first but growing stronger each day.
Then came the nausea, striking at random moments without warning or apparent cause.
The mood swings appeared last week with sudden tears over misplaced scissors, and an inexplicable irritation with clients I’ve worked with for years.
My phone buzzes with a text from Harper: Coffee after work? You look like death warmed over lately.
The blunt assessment is too accurate. I’ve been avoiding looking at myself because I know I look horrible. I figured if I didn’t act like I noticed, maybe nobody else would.
Obviously wrong. Harper isn’t a moron.
I type back: Already closed early. Come by the shop?
Her response is immediate: On my way.
Twenty minutes later, Harper arrives carrying two iced coffees and looking like she’s prepared for a serious interventions. She takes one look at me and sets both drinks on the counter. Then, she perches on the edge of the cutting table, studying my face intensely. “We need to talk.”
I attempt levity, but it falls flat in the face of her obvious concern. “Hello to you too.”
“Willa, you look terrible. When’s the last time you slept more than four hours or ate a full meal?” Her voice carries the particular firmness she uses when she’s worried. “Something’s wrong, and don’t try to tell me it’s just stress or even grief.”
The denial I’ve been rehearsing dissolves under her scrutiny.
Harper knows me too well and has seen me through too many crises to be fooled by surface reassurances.
I try anyway. “I’m just tired. The business transition has been more complicated than expected, and with everything that happened to Henri. ..”
“This isn’t grief exhaustion.” Her voice softens slightly. “This is something else entirely.”
I take a sip of the iced coffee and immediately regret it. The bitter taste makes my stomach churn, and I push away the cup with a grimace that doesn’t go unnoticed.
Harper’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “Since when do you not like coffee? You’ve been mainlining caffeine since high school.”
I shrug, trying to appear casual. “My stomach’s been sensitive lately. It’s probably stress affecting my digestive system.”
She doesn’t sound convinced. “Probably. What about the crying jag last Tuesday? Or the way you snapped at that client over thread color yesterday?”
The examples pile up like evidence in a case I don’t want to face. Each symptom individually could be explained away but together, they paint a picture I’ve been desperately trying to ignore.
Harper crosses her arms, settling into full protective mode. “I think you need to see a doctor. Just to rule out anything serious.”
I instinctively shake my head. “I don’t need a doctor. I need a vacation and about twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.”
“When’s the last time you had a physical? When’s the last time you had any medical checkup?” Her voice carries stubborn determination. “You’ve been avoiding taking care of yourself since Henri died, and that’s not healthy.”
I lean back in the chair, hoping distance will soften her resolve. “I’m fine, Harper. Really.”
“You’re not fine. You’re exhausted, nauseated, and emotionally volatile. Either you’re developing some chronic condition, or...” She trails off, studying my face with dawning realization.
“Or what?”
She says the stark words gently. “Or you’re pregnant.”
I stare at her, my brain refusing to understand the words for a long moment. Pregnant. The possibility has danced at the edges of my consciousness for days, dismissed each time it surfaces because acknowledging it makes everything more complicated. I respond automatically. “That’s impossible.”
“Is it? When’s the last time you had a period?”
I try to remember, but the past few months blur together in a haze of grief and business complications and stolen afternoons with Iskander. “I don’t know. Maybe six weeks ago? Seven?” I wince when I realize it was more like ten or eleven weeks, but I’m not admitting that out loud.
Harper’s voice carries that gentle firmness again. “When’s the last time you slept with someone?”
Heat floods my cheeks despite the personal nature of our friendship. We’ve shared everything over the years, but discussing my relationship with Iskander feels different for some reason. I fidget with a stray thread on my sleeve. “It’s not what you think.”
“I’m not thinking anything. I’m asking a direct question that requires a direct answer.”
I study her face, recognizing she won’t let this go until she has the truth, no matter how complicated that truth might be. “Three times,” I say quietly, “With Iskander.”
Her eyes widen slightly, but she keeps her expression neutral. “When?”
The confession feels both liberating and terrifying. “The first time was about nine weeks ago, in his office. Then twice more over the past month. We’ve been... I don’t know what to call it. Dating, I suppose, though that word feels inadequate for whatever’s happening between us.”
“Were you using protection?”
I nod, though the gesture feels hollow. “We used condoms, but thinking about it right now, I think I missed several birth control pills after Henri died. The stress made me forget about everything except basic survival.”
Harper processes the information with a slow nod. “Condoms aren’t foolproof, especially when combined with inconsistent hormonal birth control.”
The admission comes out sharper than intended. “I know that. I know all the statistics about failure rates and user error. I just thought...”
“You thought you’d be lucky.”
“I thought I had enough problems without adding an unplanned pregnancy to the mix.” I look down. “Truthfully, I guess I wasn’t thinking at all.”
The silence stretches between us. A pregnancy would complicate everything that matters to me, including my relationship with Iskander, my business responsibilities, and my safety in a world that’s already proven dangerous.
She slides off the cutting table and moves closer. “We need to find out for sure. There’s an urgent care clinic about twenty minutes from here. We can go right now.”
I shake my head, though certainty settles into my bones. “I don’t need a clinic visit to confirm what I already know. My body’s been trying to tell me for weeks. I just haven’t been listening.”
“Then we definitely need medical confirmation, and we need to discuss your options.”
The word ‘options’ implies things I’m not prepared to shoulder.
I think about the foster homes, the families that never quite felt like mine, and the constant awareness that I was disposable to people who were supposed to care.
I look up to meet her gaze. “I can’t terminate a pregnancy.
I’ve lost too much family already and won’t choose to lose more. ”
Her expression softens with understanding. “Then we need to think about how you’re going to manage this. A baby changes everything, Willa, especially given your current circumstances.”
My current circumstances. The euphemism encompasses so much, including inheriting a business I don’t fully understand, being watched by hostile forces I can’t see, and falling for a man whose world could destroy everything I’ve tried to build.
The question emerges as almost a whisper. “How do I raise a child in Iskander’s world? How do I protect someone that innocent from the violence that seems to follow him everywhere?”
Her tone remains calm but firm. “Maybe you don’t. Maybe you make different choices about who you trust and where you build your life.”
The suggestion implies abandoning everything, including the shop, the partnership, and whatever’s growing between Iskander and me. That would mean starting over somewhere safe and anonymous, where a child could grow up without fear…but also without a father.
I slump back in the chair, overwhelmed by the complexity of feelings I can’t begin to untangle. “I don’t know if I can do that either.”
“Why not?”
The answer reveals itself with uncomfortable clarity. “I think I’m falling in love with him.”
Harper’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in her posture. “Love or obsession?”